


Stung

by GarudaDreamsOfRain



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlolly - Fandom
Genre: Changed to mature., F/M, References to Drugs, Swearing, Too Much Drinking, new and improved!, with added smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-18 09:09:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12385158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarudaDreamsOfRain/pseuds/GarudaDreamsOfRain
Summary: Molly runs afoul of a bee and Sherlock tries to help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an enormous pile of very silly fluff. I hope you enjoy!

“Oh,” said Molly. “Oh! Oh my god, Sherlock.” Agitated, she started hopping around on the sidewalk, holding the edges of her yellow skirt in her hands.

They were coming back from the cake place, sated on sugar, and John had gone home to be with Rosie, so it was just the two of them stepping out of the cab onto Baker Street. Molly was having a twirl on the sidewalk whilst Sherlock paid the driver. Suddenly, she stopped.

“Ow! Ow! Oh, god, what is that? Sherlock, I think I just got bit.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, turning around in time to see her flapping her skirt strangely. He glanced around quickly to make sure no one on the street was watching. 

“Stop it, Molly,” he said with a small, self conscious laugh. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

“I mean it, Sherlock” she snapped back. “I’m in pain! Something bit me.”

“Stung,” Sherlock corrected.

“What?”

“Stung,” repeated Sherlock. “You’ve probably been stung. Not bit. The correct terminology for...”

“Oh, shut up, Sherlock! Whatever! Oh! Ouch!” Molly began to hop back and forth, whining.

She looks deranged, Sherlock thought. But one glance at her face told him she really was in pain. “Okay,” he said, “let’s get you upstairs and we’ll have a look.”

“I can’t,” she answered.

“Why not?”

“Because it stung me on my...on my...it flew up my skirt and stung me on my...leg.” Molly prayed he could infer from her reticence what she was alluding to. She didn’t want to go into details right there in public. For one thing, the cabbie was looking on with voyeuristic interest.

Sherlock bent over and peered at the sidewalk. A tiny bee, shaken out from the folds of Molly’s skirt, lay in its death throes. “Molly! This is an Apis Mellifera Mellifera,” he exclaimed. “A British Black! They’re never seen this far south. It’s very rare!” 

“What?” Molly complained, pressing her thighs together firmly to see if that helped. It did not help, she quickly learned. “Oh, god, Sherlock, who cares? I’m dying over here!” 

Sherlock carefully picked up the bee and put it in a small envelope he took out of the pocket of his Belstaff. He tucked it away with a pleased smile. “Quite a stroke of good luck.”

“Sherlock!” Molly screamed. “Me!” 

Sherlock glanced at her with an inquisitively arched brow. She glowered at him and he snapped to attention. “Oh, right,” he said. “You. Molly,” he said, “are you allergic?”

“Ice,” interjected the cabbie. 

“What?” Sherlock said.

“Ice,” the driver repeated. “I got four kids at home and they’re always getting into something. My missus swears by ice. Works like a charm. But you got to kiss it better, too,” he finished with a grin as he put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

“Allergies, Molly?” Sherlock repeated.

“No, I don’t think so. I haven’t been stung in years. God, Sherlock! It’s burning,” Molly whimpered. The pain was starting to get stronger. She’d forgotten how painful a bee sting was. It was like someone had stuck a hot pin in her most sensitive area. She flapped her hands in distress and her breath began to hitch.

Sherlock put his arm around her waist comfortingly as he unlocked the door and drew her into the building. “Good, no allergies.” He tried to prioritize things in his mind as he led her up the stairs. “Ummm...Molly, listen. We’ve got to remove the stinger. This species leaves the venom sac behind which will cause further irritation unless it’s removed.”

“I know!” Molly said, sharply. The burning sensation was now spreading from the inside of her groin closer to her clit. This could get bad, she thought. This could get really bad. I’m going to have to show him. Him! She wanted to curl up and die.

They entered the flat and Sherlock ushered her towards his chair. As she sat down sideways on one hip, Molly put her face in her hands and burst into tears.

“God, Sherlock, it hurts so bad!” Molly wailed. “This is stupid! I’m so embarrassed!” She continued to sob, her breath starting to come in little hiccups while Sherlock just stared at her, nearly frozen with confusion.

“What’s so embarrassing?” he attempted, trying to calm her down. “It’s just a bee sting.” His mental training in the understanding of women had not included this scenario, and he felt ill equipped to deal with her tears.

Sherlock looked on with mounting alarm as Molly continued to cry. Her face had turned red and blotchy, teary juices seemed to be pouring out of everywhere, and he felt completely helpless. For some reason he didn’t understand, this filled him with panic. He needed to help her. She had to stop crying. She definitely had to stop crying.

He took a deep breath and mentally shook himself. I can handle this, he thought. I’m Sherlock Holmes, for God’s sake. He adopted the most clinical and authoritative demeanor he could muster. “Stop crying and show me,” he commanded.

To his relief and amazement, Molly’s crying slowly hiccuped to a halt. She sniffed and bravely wiped her tears away with the back of her hand, smearing some of her mascara across her cheek. Slowly, she began to pull up her skirt. “It’s pretty high up,” she faltered. “Maybe I can deal with it myself?”

“Nonsense, Molly,” Sherlock said, softly. “Let me help you. Please.”

“It’s here,” she said in a very small voice. “Near my...” Her voice trailed off as she pulled her skirt above her hips, revealing a very Molly pair of knickers. Bright red cherries gaily pranced across a sunny field of yellow. Molly raised her chin and met his eye, determined to pretend as if this intimate exposure wasn’t bothering her in the least.

“Jesus...” breathed Sherlock, swallowing hard. Seeing Molly sprawled across his chair in those ridiculous knickers looking simultaneously vulnerable, trusting, and a little defiant sent an unexpected rush of fire through his veins.

Despite the cheerful view of cherries, Sherlock’s gaze was drawn to the sweet curve of her inner thigh. There, in the fold of her groin, partially hidden under the elastic of her knickers, an angry red bump had formed. She lifted her leg, draping it gracefully over the arm of Sherlock’s chair so that more of the lovely, private space between her upper thigh and inner hip was revealed. She bit her lip and blushed. “Can you see it? It’s right here...” her voice faded.

“Uh,” Sherlock said. He pointed. “You...you said it was on your leg. That’s...not your leg,” he managed.

“Understanding dawns,” she muttered sarcastically. “Sherlock, I wasn’t going to announce to the cabbie and random pedestrians on the street that something just bit my...my not my leg!”

“Okay,” he said, spreading his hands. “Okay. Stung...but...okay. Don’t panic, Molly.” He shed his Belstaff and suit coat on the back of John’s chair and rolled up the sleeves of his blue button-down. Running his hands through his hair, he stood there for several long moments, saying “umm” repeatedly and blinking rapidly.

“Sherlock,” Molly said, her voice low and urgent, “please don’t panic. But you’ve got to help me. This really hurts.”

“I’m not panicking!” he insisted. Molly raised an eyebrow at him. “Okay, well, maybe I’m panicking a bit,” he uncharacteristically conceded. “A very tiny bit. I’ll just...get some...stuff. Things. We need...things. Fixy things. Things to fix your...” he gestured vaguely at the problem area. “Okay. Okay. Back in a sec, Molly. Don’t you worry. I know just what to do.” Molly sighed and sank back into his chair, worried.

Zooming into the kitchen, he rattled around in the drawers, gathering supplies. He sprinted into the bathroom and grabbed everything out of the medicine cabinet.

“Sherlock,” Molly called, trying, unsuccessfully, to assess the sting. She couldn’t quite see that part of her anatomy. “Do you have any cocaine?” 

Sherlock took one large sidestep out of the bathroom into the hall, his arms full of mostly useless stuff. He cocked his head. “Wha-What?”

“Cocaine!” Molly shouted. “Anesthetic. It would help numb the area when you...for the procedure.” She had decided a clinical approach was the best way to deal with this. I’ll be completely professional from here out, she resolved.

“No, Molly, I don’t have any cocaine.”

“Surely you’re joking.”

“No, I’m not,” he responded with a bit of defensive heat. “After my last...uh...case...”

“You mean that epic, drug fueled bender that landed you in the hospital? The one we’re babysitting you for?”

Sherlock managed to wince and roll his eyes simultaneously. “...case, Molly. My last case. The one where I saved John Watson? Yes, if you insist on calling it drug fueled, yes again to the babysitting, and sure, he beat the crap out of me, but it was worth it. He’s speaking to me again and I caught a serial killer. Anyway,” he continued, still rummaging around in the bathroom, “whilst I was in hospital Mycroft had this flat cleaned with a fine toothed comb. He’s damned thorough. I’m out. Trust me, I’ve checked.”

His hands and arms full of medical tape, a box of plasters, scissors, a thermometer, three spoons, a tube of sunscreen, a roll of loo paper, his razor, a half used packet of Strepsils, several flannels, tweezers, a magnifying glass, and a toothbrush, Sherlock exited the bathroom and stopped in the hallway. He thought for a moment.

“Anesthetic,” he mumbled to himself. “Oh, I know.” He veered back into the kitchen and dropped everything in his arms on the counter. Opening a cupboard he pulled out a bottle of Yamazaki single malt whiskey, poured a triple shot into a clean beaker, and downed it in one gulp. He shuddered. “That’s better,” he said. 

His nerve steadied, Sherlock picked out a few pertinent items from the pile of mostly useless stuff on the counter, returned to Molly’s side, and sank down on his knees between her legs.

He looked at her legs, her lovely bare legs. Pale and creamy, they were well shaped with long, strong muscles. Molly danced as a child, Sherlock realized. The thought of her dancing made him smile. Fondness and affection for her washed over him, although it could have been warmth from the whiskey. He wasn’t quite sure. He resisted an urge to run his hand up her leg and instead slowly placed his hand gently and professionally just above her knee, noticing he could nearly circle her leg with one hand. She really was a tiny little thing.

“I can’t see it very well,” he said. “The...uh...your...” he took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. “Your knickers are in the way,” he finished in a rush. His mouth had gone dry and his brain was a bit fuzzy, probably from the whiskey. It was really difficult, for some reason, to be this close to her. He was having problems concentrating. “Should I...? Would you...?” He paused to give her time to think, and to give himself time to focus.

Molly sighed and looked at him. He was gazing at her patiently, his blue eyes steady and unexpectedly kind. “Okay, I’ll take them off,” she said. She worried her lip and stood up. She made a move to reach under her skirt when Sherlock interrupted.

“Wait, Molly,” he found himself saying. “Would you allow me...?” Rising to his knees, he placed his hands under her skirt and slowly slid his hands up her thighs. Molly began to tremble. She couldn’t help it. His large hands felt so warm against her legs, and the nerves in her muscles tingled in response to his touch. She shut her eyes when she noticed he was trembling, too, and tried to breathe evenly to calm the butterflies in her stomach. Then, for no reason, he stopped. Molly opened her eyes. Sherlock had tucked his head into his shoulder and she could see his shoulders shaking.

“Are you laughing?” 

He looked up at her, mirth filling his eyes. “Yes, I am.” The whiskey was flowing in his veins now, lending him a careless bravado. “Molly, never has a tiny bee caused this much consternation between two people! I’m damned nervous about this, and I expect you are, too. I tell you what, we’ll do this, and then I’ll show you mine and we’ll be even. Okay?”

Molly hesitated only a moment before giggling. She nodded and surrendered. There really was no point in trying to be modest about this situation anymore. The whole thing was too ridiculous.

Sherlock hooked his fingers into the waistband of her knickers and slid them down her legs. She stepped out of them neatly and sat back down, carefully, on Sherlock’s chair.

“Did you find any anesthetic?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Well, where is it?”

“I drank it.”

“It was supposed to be for me, Sherlock. Please!”

He went into the kitchen, retrieved the bottle and brought it out to her. “Let me see if I can find a clean glass...”

“No need,” she answered, pulling the stopper and drinking straight from the bottle. “This’ll do.” He sat on the floor beside her and watched her take a couple of hefty pulls.

“You do realize that whiskey you’re swilling like water costs several thousand pounds, don’t you?”

“Good,” Molly said, nonplussed, taking another swig. “And I don’t swill.”

“Jeez, no wonder John and I got completely smashed,” he commented with amusement, watching her with some awe. “If that’s how you calculate alcohol consumption, I’m surprised we didn’t die. Slow down, Molly. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” Molly said. “It’s hardly my fault you’re a lightweight. Besides, I’m having a trauma.”

“So am I,” he said. “Pass the whiskey.” She obliged. After refreshing his resolve, he gave the bottle back to her. The clock ticked by whilst they slowly passed the anesthetic back and forth, waiting for it to take effect.

After a while, Molly began to talk. According to Sherlock’s calculations, Molly spent approximately eight minutes saying, “bees. Beeeeees. Bees. Bees. Buzzy bees. Sting-y bees. Bzzzzzzz. Damnable buzzy, sting-y bees. Honey bees. Honey. Bzzzzzz. Zzzzzzz. BeeeEEEEeeeees. What a weird word, doncha think, Sherlock? It sounds funny on my lips. Feels funny. Beeeeeees. Beeeeees. Bzzzzzbt. Bees. Bees. Bees! It even sounds tiny and buzzy.” She giggled. “What’s that word for words that are like they are?”

It was at that point Sherlock determined they should proceed. “Onomatopoeia,” he smiled. “Are you ready?” he asked; he estimated she’d drunk enough to anesthetize a small rhinoceros.

“Yeth. Yes,” Molly corrected herself primly. She cocked her leg, turned her knee out and poured a small stream of whiskey down her inner hip so it trickled across the bee sting.

“Molly! What the he...what are you doing?” 

Molly extended her leg and made a flourish with the bottle. “Prepping for sthurgery,” she slurred happily. Her expression changed and she hissed as the alcohol came into contact with the sting and her vagina, pooling in the chair under her. “Owwwww!” Molly wailed. “Now I’m sitting in it. It burns!”

“Yes, it would,” Sherlock replied, as sternly as he could muster, taking the bottle away from her. He grabbed a flannel from the heap of supplies and shoved it under her. “It’s alcohol and you’re ruining my chair.”

Molly giggled. “Ooo-ummm,” she said, her expression changing, “it feels...weird. Like, it kind of tingles,” she began to squirm a bit. “Wait. It’s...kind of nice.” She closed her eyes.

“God help me,” Sherlock muttered. He got on his hands and knees, leaned in and began to blow on the bee sting, startling her.

Molly’s eyes flew open and she screamed, smacking him upside the head. “Sherlock! What are you doing?”

Sherlock flinched. “Ow! You’re all wet, Molly. I mean, the sting...there’s alcohol on it...I can’t grab the...thing when you’re soaking wet. Stop laughing! I’m trying to dry it out, but you’re moving around and I can’t...never mind. Fine. We’ll wait until you air dry.” He sat back, took a small swig from the bottle and passed it to her. “Do you always scream this much when you’re drunk?”

“I dunno,” she said. “How often am I drunk?” 

“I wouldn’t know,” he shrugged, shaking his head and trying not to laugh. 

“This is nice whiskey, though,” she commented.

“Yeah, Mycroft sent it to me for Christmas last year.” Sherlock stretched out on the floor, clasping his hands behind his head.

“Smooth,” she said, coughing from the burn. “What’d you send him?”

Sherlock grinned. “A dozen cakes from Hummingbird Bakery.” 

“That’s just cruel. You should be nicer to your brother and stop teasing him,” Molly said. “He cares about you.”

“He loved it. He only pretends to be mad,” he said, propping his feet up on the arm of his chair. “It’s just the way we are, Molly. It kind of works. Sometimes.” 

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm?”

“Are you going to keep that?” she asked, indicating his scruffy beard.

“Do you like it?”

“Mmhmm!” She nodded vigorously. “It makes you look all dangerous sthexy.

“Is sthexy a good thing? Is it like actual sexy?” 

“Stop,” she grinned. “You know what I meaned. Sherlock, if you put an eye patch over that...” she slowed down and pronounced her next words very carefully...”subconjunctival hemorrhage...you’d look like a pirate. I said the big words good,” she finished with a proud smile.

Sherlock had never seen her be more adorable. “Yes, you said them real good,” he agreed. 

“But you need one of them big hats. With the feather. And a parrot! It could say, ‘Molly want a cracker?’” She burst into laughter at her own wit. “You get it, right? ‘Cos normally it’s Polly. But I’m Molly.”

“Yes, you’re hilarious. Maybe we could pass on the big hat. And the parrot. But, you like pirates, Molly?” he said, trying to sound offhand.

“I do! I like bad boys. I can’t help it,” she confessed, almost sadly. “Ish the romance. Byron and all them guys, looking gorgeous bad and hanging out in the woods and pretty mansions and stuff? But I thinks I like nice men better. In actualness, you know? Nobody wants a real bad gorgeous person for anything other than, well, you know.” She stopped talking and seemed to be thinking. 

“Hmmmm,” he said. Irene Adler had sprung, unbidden, into his mind. It was hard not to compare Irene’s icy, sophisticated dominance to Molly’s giggly, relaxed friendliness. Irene might be fun for the Game, but he couldn’t imagine just hanging out with her, getting drunk, teasing and laughing, like they were doing today. He couldn’t let his guard down around Irene, but he felt completely comfortable and relaxed with Molly. He shook his head to clear it.

“But that’s what playtime is for,” she offered. 

“Playtime?”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Molly said, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “You must know about playtime. It’s when you...you know...you dressh up or have little...scenarios...there are all kind of toys...” she trailed off, her mind far away. A slow smile spread over her face.

“Molly!” He seemed shocked. “Are you talking about s-e-x?” He actually spelled it.

“Y-e-s,” she retorted, and giggled. “I-a-m. I’ll show you someday,” she said. “Remind me, ‘kay?”

“Sure,” he said, snickering. “I’ll remind you. Are you dry now?”

She sighed. “Yes.”

“Then let’s do this, okay?”

“Okay. Lessus dooz it. We’re going to thing the do!” she squealed happily.

Sherlock grabbed the tweezers and shuffled over on his knees until he was between her legs. “I’d give you a bullet to bite on but in your condition you’d probably swallow it,” he said.

“I could bite you inshtead,” she teased, hopefully. 

“Molly...” he warned. It was hard enough to focus being this close to her. It didn’t help his concentration when she was giggling and cooing right next to him. 

“Can you see it?” Molly asked, leaning way over until she blocked his view. He could feel her warm breath on his ear, and a strand of her hair tickled his cheek. It was distracting.

“Yes. Stop helping,” he said, pushing her back. He could see the black dot of the stinger in the center of the angry red bump. He moved in closer. “Be very still, Molly. Maybe take a deep breath and hold it.” The scent of her was all around him, swirling through the air and making him dizzy. She smelled so...alluring. She should have smelled like a distillery, but instead he caught whiffs of strawberry shampoo and lily of the valley body wash, in addition to the faint, warm musk of her sex. Sherlock swallowed and tried to focus on his task. His pulse quickened and he felt a rush of blood to his groin.

His head was so close Molly could have reached out and twined her fingers in his luscious dark curls. She had to stifle a nervous laugh, wondering what he would do if she did. “This is not the way I thought I’d get you between my legs.”

“Please, Molly. Don’t make jokes. I’m trying to concentrate. This is going to hurt just a tiny bit,” he said, carefully drawing the stinger out with the tweezers. “Oh, damn!”

“What? Did you get it?”

“Well, um, the tip is still inside you,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “I mean, part of the...thing is still, the end is still in...there. Oh, god,” he finished miserably. “It broke off.”

“Well, get it out!”

“I will! I am! I’m going to need...” he looked around. “A probe of some type.” He got up, went to the mantel, withdrew a large beetle from the display case and returned.

“What the fuck is that?” Molly screamed. “You are not going to use that pin on me,” she continued, waggling her finger at him. “It’s filthy! Germs. J-e-r-m-s, Sherlock.” 

He carefully removed the insect from the long display pin. “Language,” he tutted. “And don’t be silly, Molly. I’ll sterilize it.” He held the pin in the flame of a lighter to the count of ten. “See? Perfectly sterile. Ready?” He bent over her again.

“I’m just trying to remember the last time I had a tetanus booster. Or a giant weevil vaccination.” 

“Try to relax,” he suggested. “We’re almost done and you’re doing really well,” he lied. He’d never seen such high drama over anything so insignificant before. Even John hadn’t made this kind of uproar when he’d come back from the dead; John had just hit him a couple of times and then everything was fine. For some reason, that had been a million times easier than this. “Okay, now, Molly, hold very still,” Sherlock said. 

She nodded, held her breath, and clutched fistfuls of her skirt. “Ow...Ow...Ow...Ow...” Molly muttered. With a few random stabs, some probing and digging, he extracted the rest of the stinger and they both breathed a huge sigh of relief. 

He poured a little whiskey on his fingers and gently rubbed the area. “One last thing,” he said, jumping up, running into the kitchen and coming back. “This won’t hurt at all,” he said, pressing something that felt as cold as liquid nitrogen against the sting. Molly screeched and knocked the ice cube out of Sherlock’s hand. It skittered across the floor and disappeared under the settee.

“Sherlock! Don’t you know anything about lady parts? You don’t put ice on a lady’s twat!”

“This isn’t your...twat,” he responded. “This is next to your twat.” With a little flourish, he produced a second piece of ice from his left hand. “See? I knew you were going to do that,” he declared, triumphantly, flicking a hand in the direction of the lost ice cube. “And stop screaming! Mrs. Hudson’s going to think I’m murdering you or something.”

“Well, it’s fucking sensitive down there. Especially now that you’ve used what felt like a pickax.”

“Molly, please,” Sherlock said primly, trying not to laugh. “Language! My ears.”

“So twat is okay but fucking is too much?”

“Yes, I should think fucking is too much. Just put your head back, relax, and...think of England,” he suggested. “I promise this will help with the swelling. Well, the cabbie promised.”

“Oh, like he’s a medical professional,” Molly scoffed. “Besides, he said you have to kiss it better.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“I thought as much,” she muttered glumly. 

“Last time my lips got anywhere near there you almost gave me a concussion.”

“It’s starting to itch,” she complained, squirming. “I want to scratch it. Don’t you have any antihishtamines?”

“Not with how much booze you’ve guzzled. I’m not taking you unconscious to A&E and telling them this story. I’d rather jump off Bart’s again than go through that.”

“I don’t guzzle,” Molly said, wiggling.

“Stop squirming and relax!” Sherlock ordered, his voice firm, while he tried, not very successfully, to keep the slippery piece of ice in place. “Has anyone ever told you you’re rather a sloppy drunk, Molly?” 

Molly put her head back and tried to relax. “I don’t guzzle,” she mumbled insistently.

“Yes, you sipped that single malt like a Duchess. Okay, I think we’re done. The stinger’s gone, it’s disinfected and it’s been iced. How does it feel?” Sherlock tossed the scrap of ice over his shoulder, leaving it to melt on the Persian carpet.

“It’s itchy and frozen,” she pouted, straining to look. “And it hurts. Do you have a mirror?”

Sherlock rooted around in the drawer of the little table and located a small hand mirror. He paused, thinking ahead for once. “Uh, are you sure you want to look? It’s not very...pretty right now. Maybe I should put a plaster on it. Why don’t I...”

Molly grabbed the mirror out of his hand and angled it until she could see. To Sherlock’s utter consternation, she burst into tears again. “Oh, Sherlock! It’s awful! It’s all...swollen and lacerated!”

Oh, god, Sherlock thought. This was a disaster. Not only had he hurt her, she was making those face juices again. The ones that made him panic. She looked up at him with despair in her big, brown eyes as the tears poured down her cheeks. Acting completely on instinct because his mind had fled, Sherlock slid his arms under her and picked her up. He sat down in his chair and positioned her on his lap while she snuggled into his shoulder and continued to sob. He put his arms around her.

“I have an ugly twat now,” she hiccuped into his neck. “It will never be pretty again.”

“Oh, my sweet Molly,” Sherlock soothed, rubbing her back. “Your...twat is very nice. Do we have to say twat? Let’s use lady parts instead, shall we? Your lady parts are very...beautiful. Just like the rest of you.”

Molly made small murmuring sounds and snuffled into his neck, encouraging him to continue. Her hand slowly slid up his chest, passed over his shoulder and came to rest in that delicate, sexy curl at the nape of his neck. She’d spent entire afternoons at Bart’s daydreaming about that curl. She twisted it gently between her fingers as he continued.

“I mean,” Sherlock said, gathering steam as he talked, “not now, of course, because your lady parts are all torn up and red and swollen, and so is your face, but normally, you know, when you’re not like this...now your face is all blotchy and your eyes are puffy and you’ve got mascara all over...” He trailed off because Molly had pushed away from his shoulder and was glaring at him.

“You were doing better before, when you called me your sweet Molly. I am, you know. Sweet, I mean,” she snarled.

“I’m sorry, Molly,” he said sheepishly. “Yes, you’re very sweet.” She snuggled into him again with what sounded like a little purr. “Most of the time, that is.” He cut off again as she stiffened and there was a small, awkward pause. 

“God, I always say the wrong thing!” he blurted out. “It’s just that for some reason you make me so nervous with your face juices and your big, soulful eyes. You’re always good to me, even when you’re mad at me and I don’t deserve it, but my god, you have a temper! I just want the best for you, and I want you to be happy. I can’t stand it when you’re in any kind of pain. It makes me want to break things. But I always end up breaking myself and hurting you. I can’t seem to help it,” he said, sadly. “I hate it when I hurt you, Molly.” He raised his hand and tucked an errant strand from her ponytail behind her ear. Then he traced the edge of her jaw with his fingers, and brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Molly breathed. She sat up, facing him, and brushed the back of her fingers lightly over the scruff of his beard. She rubbed her nose against his. 

Lost in her eyes, her regard, and her delicious smell, Sherlock barely knew what he was doing when he leaned in and pressed his lips against hers in a gentle kiss. He hadn’t planned on kissing her, but she looked so soft and warm and she felt so right sitting in his lap. He wanted to taste her lips very badly.

When she didn’t immediately scream or slap him, Sherlock moved his mouth against hers, seeking a deeper connection. Molly kissed him back. His tongue slipped across her lips, requesting entrance, and she opened to him willingly. She moaned softly and wound her arms around his neck. They stayed wrapped around each other in the quiet flat, tasting, exploring, and breathing together. Despite the drama of the day, Sherlock had never felt so content. This was exceedingly pleasurable; more so than he could have ever imagined. Finally, they broke apart and he pressed his forehead against hers.

“Are you, Molly?”

“Am I what?”

“Mine.”

“Always and forever, Sherlock,” Molly said, “whether you like it or not.” She feathered kisses and gentle nibbles over his jaw and down the beautiful column of his neck. When she reached that lovely hollow at the base of his throat, she playfully made a buzzing sound against his pulse and couldn’t resist sucking a mark onto his skin. 

“Oh, my god,” he teased. “I’m in need of immediate medical attention. Something just bit me.”

“Stung, Sherlock. The correct terminology is stung. And Dr. Hooper is here to take care of all your needs,” Molly said, kissing him again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently there was a second chapter! Who knew?

An hour later they were still entwined together on his chair, quietly enjoying the nearness of each other. Molly was feeling heavy on Sherlock’s lap. He shifted uncomfortably. “As much as I’d love to sit here and hold you all afternoon,” he said, “my legs are asleep. You have to move, Molly.” She sighed and slipped off his lap. Sherlock stood up, a trifle unsteady, and went into the kitchen. He shook out his legs to disperse the pins and needles whilst plugging in the kettle. “Tea?” he called.

“Mmhmm,” Molly murmured, stretching like a cat on his chair and yawning. She pulled the elastic out of her ponytail and ran her fingers through her hair so that the thick, dark locks fell around her shoulders. She kicked off her red flats and curled up, tucking her bare legs underneath her and folding her hands together under her chin. Sherlock’s chair was still warm from his body and it was so comfortable. She smiled to herself sleepily and was almost grateful for that damn bee. Even though the sting still hurt, without it and the events that followed, Sherlock never would have kissed her at all. In a day or two the sting would be healed, but their hearts had been changed forever.

She closed her eyes, a soft glow spreading through her as she remembered the way his warm lips had felt moving against hers. She thought of the delicious feel of his firm muscles under her hands, the stiffness of his scruffy beard against her cheek, and the tender regard in his eyes. About how his thighs had tensed under hers as she sat on his lap, and how the pulse in his throat had called to her, begging to be kissed, to be licked, to be bitten. 

His body was like mortal sin. He was all hard, capable muscle; long, lean and gorgeous. Molly smiled to herself in a sleepy fog of contentment. She felt, oddly, like she’d just won some kind of lottery. He was such a good man, she thought, even if he didn’t know it yet. Completely irritating, stubborn, and sublimely caring, all at the same time. Her thoughts melted into dim blurry pictures, swirling visions of his eyes, his lips, his hands, surrounding her, touching her, wanting her. She drifted off.

When Sherlock came out of the kitchen a few minutes later with a mug of hot tea, he stopped when he saw she was asleep. He smiled. She was so lovely, even with mascara smeared across her face and remnants of puffiness around her eyes. She was incredible. Incredibly scary, that is. And strong. Rare. He suddenly realized that she made him feel grateful, and he was a little awestruck at the depth of feeling she sparked in him. He liked how she could terrify him and fill him with desire all at the same time. 

He ran his fingers over his lips, thinking about how sweet her mouth had felt, how yielding against his. How her tiny body had eagerly melded to his in gentle curves filled with need and heat, how her breasts had pressed against his chest when she held him close, and how pleasurable it had been to hear her soft, throaty moans when he kissed her. And now they belonged to each other. It had been a long time coming.

He sat down on John’s chair and took a sip of her tea as he gazed at her. She’d had a tough afternoon. She’d drunk too much whiskey, screamed a lot, been subject to his clumsy attempts at surgery and acted like a trooper throughout. Well, a drunken, upset, angry trooper. How did she do that? How could she flash so angry and be so desirable at the same time? The memory of her fiery eyes and silly giggle melted him. He put the tea down and went over to pick her up. Molly made small sounds against his neck as she wrapped her arms around him.

“Where are we going?” she mumbled.

“I’m going to put you to bed,” he answered, carrying her into the bedroom and placing her gently on his bed. “You’ll feel better after a nap.” She made a contented little moan and turned on her side. Going into the loo, Sherlock wet a flannel, filled a glass with water and found some paracetamol. Returning to her side, he gently wiped the smear of mascara from her face. 

“Mmm. That feels nice,” she mumbled sleepily. 

“Molly, sit up for a minute,” he coaxed. “I want you to take these painkillers and drink some water.” She leaned contentedly against his shoulder whilst he finished washing her face and helped her take the pills. She curled back up on the bed. He covered her with the duvet, drew the curtains to darken the room from the afternoon sunshine and tiptoed out, leaving the door cracked so he could hear her if she woke. He peeked in for another glimpse of her. Her dark hair was fanned out against his pillow, and he thought she looked like an angel as she slept. Yes, she was an angel. A terrifying, beautiful angel. He fought the urge to join her in bed. Instead, he went back to the lounge to finish her tea.

He texted Anderson to tell him not to bother with his babysitting shift that evening because Molly was staying late, and then disappeared into his mind palace to sort and catalog the afternoon’s experiences. He wanted to remember everything about it, about her. He savoured the memory of her lips on his, wanting to feel her legs wrapped urgently around him, longing to bury himself in the warm depths of her body. He sighed. “Patience,” he told himself.

—————

Several hours later he went to check on Molly. She was still asleep. He toed off his shoes and climbed onto the bed. “Molly,” he said, “wake up. I’ve got some ointment I think might help you.” He bounced up and down, jiggling the bed. “Molly?”

“Mmmff?”

“Wake up.” He pushed her shoulder. “I have something for you.”

“What? What’s going on? How long have I been asleep?”

“Just a couple of hours. I have medication for your twa…lady parts…bee sting.”

“What kind of medication?” she asked. She rubbed her eyes. It was late afternoon and the room had grown darker whilst she slept.

“Ointment.” She looked groggy and puzzled so he continued. “Balm. Salve. Emollient. Unguent. C-r-e-a-m. I had Richard make it up for you.”

“Who’s Richard?”

“He’s a chemist.”

“What chemist?” Molly sat up. She was waking up now and feeling much better. The paracetamol had really helped, as had the nap. Her bee sting still burned, but it wasn’t as excruciating as it had been earlier.

“Down at the shops.” She gave him a blank stare. “The chemist. Down at the Chemist,” he continued, talking slowly as if to a child. “He owes me a favor, so I asked him to mix up something that would help with the itching and burning. Something better than that ineffective over the counter stuff.” Sherlock looked pleased with himself.

“You mean you went out? When?”

“When you were asleep, obviously. Do try to keep up.”

“Whilst I was asleep?”

“Really, Molly, are you going to repeat everything I say? Yes. Whilst you were asleep. I could hardly have gotten this stuff without going out. Don’t you want to know why he owes me a favor? I was incredibly brilliant.”

“No, I don’t want to know why he owes you a favor. Sherlock, you went out by yourself?” Molly crossed her arms and glared at him.

Sherlock looked at her as if she had suddenly become the stupidest person in London. “Yes. I went out. By myself. To the Chemist. For you.” There was a long pause while she arched her brow and tapped her finger against her arm, waiting for the realization to hit him. 

“Oh!” he finally said, nodding. “I get it. I’m not supposed to be alone, am I? Especially when I go out. In case I’m seized by an evil impulse to use. In case a hypodermic needle of smack is lurking in an alley, waiting to jump on me and plunge itself into my veins. I’m supposed to have someone with me at all times.”

“Exactly,” Molly responded. “It’s my shift, Sherlock. I’m supposed to be in charge of you right now. But you took advantage of my…weakened state to escape my authority.” She tried to keep the twinkle out of her eye.

He snorted. “Weakened state? You mean drunken stupor, don’t you?” 

“No,” she said, icily. “Let’s say my…tender condition.”

“Let’s not. That sounds like you’re pregnant.”

“Sherlock, you went out when you shouldn’t have done. You know better.”

“I forgot,” he said, shrugging sheepishly. “I just wanted to do something nice for you. To make you feel better.” He did feel a twinge of remorse, small as it was. But was she not going to acknowledge his thoughtfulness in getting the ointment?

He tried on the puppy dog eyes to see if that would help assuage her obvious irritation, knowing he looked very forgivable that way. He distantly wondered if Richard had a special ointment for an upset girlfriend. He might need gallons of it. Then he realized with alarm his mind had used the word girlfriend, so then he really started to panic and wondered if he was going to have these weird thoughts and random panic attacks for the rest of his life, which made him even more panicky. Feeling off balance now, Sherlock mentally pushed all of that aside and cocked his head to add to the puppy dog effect.

“Nice try,” she said dryly. “But no, the puppy eyes aren’t going to work. You know what this means, don’t you, Sherlock?”

“Um…no. No, I don’t know what this means.” Frantically, he searched his mind. Had they talked about this before? Was he supposed to know?

“It means,” Molly said with mock seriousness, “I have to frisk you to ascertain if you’ve secreted any illegal drugs on your person.” She paused for a minute to let this information sink in. He blinked rapidly. “Assume the position, mister,” Molly said, her voice low and suggestive. “Hands against that door. I’m going to have to search you. Very thoroughly.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew big, but then he grinned, scrambled out of bed, placed his hands at shoulder height on the glass door to the loo, and spread his legs apart. He heard the soft rustle of sheets behind him as she got out of bed.

Molly approached him, sliding her hands over his slim hips and pressing herself against his back. “Don’t move your hands, Sherlock,” she said quietly. “Whatever happens, you’re not to move. Okay?” She started slowly tugging his tucked-in shirt out of the back of his trousers.

Sherlock nodded. He was going to reply, but he found his mouth had gone dry and he couldn’t speak. All he could think about was her hands on his skin and what she might do next with those capable fingers. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, lost in physical sensation, every nerve tingling with anticipation.

Molly ran her hands down the outside of his right leg, over his trousers, from his hips to his ankle. She came up on the inside and lingered between his legs, stroking him softly and tickling a bit. Then she did the same thing with his left leg. Her movements were slow and deliberate, designed to tease and entice, to leave him hungry for more. 

Sherlock moaned, his breath becoming ragged, and he let his head fall forward. Running her hands across his plump arse, Molly squeezed his cheeks gently and trailed her fingers across his cleft. She ran her hands up to his waist, over his shirt and up his strong, broad back to his shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin under his shirt and hearing the sudden intake of his breath as she touched him. Pressing up against him, she cradled her cheek in that delectable space between his shoulder blades, just below the nape of his neck. He smelled so good; his cologne was subtle and earthy and mixed with the pleasing scent of his rising desire. She inhaled and rubbed her cheek against his warm back, treasuring the rich sensuality of the moment.

Molly ran a hand down each of his arms, over his biceps and down past his elbows to his forearms, tracing the path of the prominent veins with her fingers and returning up the underside of his arm to his armpit. She rubbed his chest from behind, caressing his nipples through the soft fabric of his shirt, and then slowly, so slowly, slid her hands down the hard, flat plane of his stomach.

Sherlock trembled and his knees turned to water. Desire flooded through him, pooling between his legs. He could feel himself straining against his trousers. “God, Molly…” he breathed. He thought he might come just from the feeling of her hands gliding over him. He ached for her, wanting to whip around and take her into his arms, devour her luscious mouth and bury his hard need in her sweetness.

“Don’t move, Sherlock,” Molly whispered in his ear. His deep, needy moans were sending waves of arousal through her. “Keep your hands on the door. It’s playtime now.” He groaned but nodded, acquiescing to her will. He thought he might burst with the delicious pleasure of her slow inspection and the restraint she required of him.

She tugged the rest of his shirt out from the front of his trousers, and, standing behind him, unbuttoned it from the bottom up. It soon hung free, exposing his firm, pale chest with its scattering of soft, dark hair to her eager touch. Molly stroked his chest gently, and then ran her hands down his sides more firmly, wanting to increase the pressure on his skin, wanting to build his desire.

Sherlock winced and flinched slightly. Confused, Molly pulled his shirt aside to look. His left side was covered in bruises from breast to hip, ghastly yellow discolorations, their mottled edges shining with sickening greens and purples. Some of them were strangely shaped, like the bruises she’d once seen on a corpse. That person had been kicked to death in a fight. Those type of bruises were made by shoes. Molly hissed with shock.

“Where did these come from, Sherlock?” When he didn’t answer, she asked again. “How did you get these?”

“They don’t hurt very much anymore, Molly,” he answered softly. “Only if you press on them too hard. One of the ribs was cracked but it’s better now.” 

“That’s not what I asked.”

Sherlock sighed, keeping his hands against the door. “I’d rather not say. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It matters to me,” Molly said, ducking under his arm and moving in front of him to look into his eyes. “Tell me. Please, Sherlock.”

He bit his lip and wouldn’t meet her eyes. He hung his head. “No, Molly,” he said.

“Who are you protecting…” she began and then she suddenly stopped. Her eyes widened. “It was John,” she realized. “John did this.” She looked at him to confirm but he couldn’t look at her. “Oh, my god,” she whispered. She knew the cut on his brow and his bloodied eye were from John, but that’s all there was, she had believed. “I didn’t know…” she said. “I hadn’t thought…god, Sherlock! He could have killed you!”

He took his hands from the door and let them fall loosely at his sides. “John needed…” Sherlock said. He fell silent for a moment and then shrugged. He looked her in the eye then, begging her silently to understand. “John grieves with his fists,” he finally explained. “All I did was give him a target. He hates me when I use,” he chuckled wryly. “But don’t you see, Molly? He had to come back to us. To me,” he admitted. “And since I was responsible for Mary’s death, I thought…” his voice trailed off.

Molly’s heart flipped over. She slid her arms around his waist carefully and placed her head gently on his chest. He clasped his hands together across the small of her back. “Oh, Sherlock,” she breathed. He detected something in her voice he couldn’t quite recognize. Was it disappointment? Pity? He felt her hot tears spill on his bare chest. No, he realized with a shock. It was compassion. She was crying. For him. He froze, not knowing what to do. No one had ever cried for him before. Because of him, sure. But not for him. He felt disorientated and confused and the walls seemed to tilt. Molly tenderly kissed the bruise over his breast. Sherlock felt that kiss pierce his heart like a knife.

He was undone. Shattered. No one had ever expressed so much regard for him, and he didn’t know how to deal with the unbearable ache that was growing inside him. Something unfamiliar, something long forgotten was moving within him, shifting uncomfortably. In a dim vision, he remembered a shingle beach with children playing. The sun had thrown a million sparkles on the water. There had been a dog. And then the pain had come. He had a vague feeling it came because of him. 

Oh, god, Sherlock realized desperately. This is what love felt like. Being loved hurt. He didn’t want love; he didn’t deserve to be loved. He’d run from it his whole life. And now, here it was, crying on his chest. For him.

Sherlock groaned; he felt ripped apart. Part of him wanted to run, part of him wanted to stay, part of him wanted to use. But he also wanted Molly so badly that his need for her overrode everything else. He blindly pulled her to him and crushed his mouth against hers, kissing her deeply, passionately. He poured all of his pain and desire into her lips and she took it all, drinking from his like she could never get enough. Pushing her towards the bed, they stumbled back, locked together in an urgent, needful embrace. They fell into the rumpled sheets, Molly underneath him, Sherlock softening their fall with one arm around her and the other braced against the mattress.

Molly scrabbled at the fastening of his trousers, undoing the button and the zipper and pushing his clothes down, out of the way. Spreading her thighs, she took his hard length in her hand and guided him to her ready core.

“Wait, Molly,” Sherlock panted, pulling back. “Your sting. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t care, Sherlock,” she breathed against his mouth, wrapping her legs around his hips, yearning for him. “Take me. Fuck me. Hurt me. Love me. I want to feel everything. Please…now, Sherlock,” she begged.

With a moan, Sherlock pushed into her. Molly gasped and took his full length, glorying in the wonderful feeling of him filling her as he thrust into her, again and again. His mouth claimed hers in raw, desperate kisses. They rode on waves of desire, spiraling into realms of white, sparkling heat, where their pain and pleasure mingled together until they became one.

—————

“Jesus,” Sherlock said, lying on his back. “That was…I am…it was…” he trailed off, finding no words to adequately describe his overwhelm. “Molly, are you okay? I didn’t hurt you too badly, did I?” He tucked her hair behind her ear. She was sprawled across his chest, wearing nothing but her yellow skirt, nibbling on his ear.

“I’m fine,” she answered, her voice positively purring. She sucked the lower edge of his ear into her mouth and lightly bit down, teasing the edge with her tongue. “I think we just added three days to my healing time, but I’ll live.”

“Sorry about your blouse,” he said, indicating the shredded remains at the foot of the bed. “I guess I owe you a new one.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you are an animal,” Molly said, a distinct note of satisfaction in her voice.

“Why do they make those things with so many tiny buttons?” he complained. “I didn’t mean to rip it off you like that, but I was…having a moment, and your breasts are so…” 

“Small?” She finished, with a meaningful nip on his shoulder.

“Enticing. Gorgeous. Perfect,” he said, flipping her onto her back and taking her pert nipple in his mouth. He sucked and rolled it between his teeth until she squealed with pleasure. “Just like your lips,” he finished with a smile, reaching up and kissing them, lingering to explore her mouth with his tongue. “I don’t know how you put up with me, much less like me at all. I am such an arsehole.”

“I’m hardly going to argue with you about that.”

“Have I apologized enough for that Christmas yet?”

“Never. And you can make it up to me, for starters, by giving me a shirt to wear. I like that purple one.”

“Oh, no.” He shook his head adamantly. “Not the purple one. I happen to know you love it when I wear that shirt. Don’t bother to deny it, I’ve seen the way you look at me. Every time, your eyes dilate, your pulse increases and you blush. That’s why I wear it when I go to Bart’s. Why would I give you something that makes me more desirable to you? Be logical, Molly.”

“You’re the one being illogical, Sherlock,” she said, an amused smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

“I hardly think so,” he scoffed.

“Look at it this way,” she offered. “I have something you want, and you have something I need. It’s a trade. You can work out the balance with apologies.”

“It’s blackmail!”

“Whatever you want to call it,” she said lightly. “The fact is, I have the upper hand.”

He sighed in mock defeat and turned to kiss her again with a wicked smile, trailing a finger lightly between her breasts. “Yes, you do, Molly Hooper. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I think we have time for one more apology before dinner, don’t you think?”

Molly slid her arms around his neck and began to nuzzle his lips. “I’m not hungry at all, Sherlock. We might even have time for two.”


End file.
